


empurata

by Vintage (KyberHearts)



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Friendship, Gen, One Shot Collection, Romance, The Transformers: Lost Light, gender neutral reader, mental health
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2019-10-31 06:53:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17844524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/Vintage
Summary: if(goingToCrashIntoEachOther){don’t();}--Collection of Transformers fics





	1. empurata - shockwave (1/?)

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting in my drafts for long enough

The moment you found yourself elbow-deep in the circuits and wiring of a twenty-foot tall mech from freakin’ outer space, you knew that there was no turning back.

First contact happens in the middle of a grocery run when triggered alarm systems ping your phone. You expect to find burglars making off your flatscreen or mini-fridge. Instead, the dumbass you now affectionately call Wheeljack is leaking black and blue all over the floor of the abandoned boxing gym-turned-garage workshop (yeah, it’s a mouthful but one-of-a-kind). The scarred mech remembers Autobot protocol for all of three seconds when he sees you, and then pushes the welding torch over.

Fixing his comms and severed neural networks, which would have taken Ratchet half a day to accomplish-- stasis, surgery, and recovery combined-- you finish in a fraction of the time. A regular sized wrench is probably the equivalent of a sewing needle for Cybertronians.

However, emergency visits are few and far in between.

First contact is reduced to a stack of spare Energon crates in the corner of the workshop, Agent Fowler and a handful of teenagers (kids, really) kept banging at your garage workshop, hollering about _Team Prime_ , and the occasional Bumblebee blasting “In Your Eyes” at odd hours.

Not so bad.

* * *

Humans categorize life as a series of stages. There’s hit singles like _Before_ and _After_ and _In Hindsight_. As you park next to the jagged silhouette surrounded by destroyed cell towers and powerhead lines, _Déjà vu_ nips at your footsteps. You grab a toolkit from the backseat, and then head towards the downed Cybertronian.

Two legs, two arms, an abdomen and a head cavity. Its left arm resembles a laser cannon in permanent form, along with a fractured cable which slots underneath the broad chest armor. All intact. It’s not quite as tall as Optimus Prime, closer to twenty-five in length, but there’s obvious strength in its dense armor and width. Dozens of powerlines spark idly on the ground and around its prone form, and by the numerous arc flash burns coating its matte finish, it must have been shocked with more than fifty thousand volts. Less than fifty can electrocute a person.

Safety first. Find the core power generator. Switch it off. Poke the powerlines to test if they’re still live.

You switch on the truck’s headlights to chase away the growing shadows and after a pause, turn up the radio. A familiar song kicks through brief moments of static.

Upon return to the Cybertronian, you smack the sole of its foot with a wrench and the resounding vibrations travel all the way to your molars. Still unresponsive. Best to kickstart its Spark and wait for consciousness. You dig your fingers into the seams between its panels and climb, wriggle, and wrestle your way over to the slanted torso.

Ratchet’s rudimentary course on robot anatomy advised that default-locks were the least violent method of opening up a patient for surgery. You find one on the inside of the right elbow and watch as the exterior armor fold away. An acrid, burning smell wafts from within and you cover your mouth with an oil-stained cloth. The ruin of fifty thousand volts. Gloves. Definitely need gloves.

At least the Spark is intact. Its luminescence is muted amidst blackened and fried wires, but it remains a light source as you push past the charred insides.

“Power, Motor, Comms, Receptors,” you repeat to yourself as you dig through your kit for an Energon canister.

The Spark’s power is dormant yet steady. Motor cables were severed in some places; electrical tape can be a temporary fix until you get your hands on a welding torch. The communication systems seemed offline. As for receptors, you wouldn’t have an idea until you inject the Energon canister directly into its Spark. You hum distractedly along to the now-distant lyrics.

“Better you than me, pal,” you say and pat the robot’s metal interior. Then you raise the canister high and stab its tapered end into the Spark, depressing the plunger as quickly as possible. Moments later, all remaining functions suddenly roars to life and the Cybertronian thrashes wildly, knocking you around the compartment.

Low, guttural growls mixed with static spill into the air. It’s not long before the mech realizes there’s someone rooting around its chest and you hear metal groan and screech as it struggles to lifts its nonfunctional limbs, further hampered the thick, tangled powerlines. Every jostled motion further crushes the damaged gears before your eyes.

“Don’t move!” you shout. “Don’t-- I’m a mechanic, I know what I’m doing, and I’m helping you! I have one hand wrapped around your Spark and none of your adjacent ports have power. Can you speak? Can you hear me?”

Another desperate surge rocks through its body and you nearly faceplant into the reanimated Spark.

“Jesus Christ, stop moving! Are your audial receptors working? What about a voice processor?”

The Cybertronian stops writhing. And its voice-- gods, its _voice_ \-- threatens to deafen you, thundering and deep, on the brink of resembling an automated script. “Affirmative to both counts,” it relents.

“Sensors?”

“Affirmative.”

“Optics?”

A pause. “Negative. It sustained significant damage.”

“Okay. I’m going to assess your optic nerves. Afterwards, I can tend to your motor processing systems. I just need you to remain as still as possible. Does that sound all right?”

A longer pause ensues. “Proceed.”

Unlike your previous encounters, this robot doesn’t resemble a humanoid. Its head is angular with a singular optic as large as a hubcap. Hooking your legs on either side of its neck, you can feel the shift of each inhale and exhale of the living metal. The Cybertronians you knew didn’t have blasters for arms either.

Using a penlight, you shine down its cavity and see evidence of ionized burn marks. Either the United States government suddenly upgraded its tech by an aeon, or this guy scrapped with another member of his species. “I’ve never had to repair optics before,” you admit. “But if we repair your comms, will you be able to receive proper help?”

“Yes.” The mech shifts and creaks-- you realize that it’s a sigh, world-weary and resigned. His words come slow, thought-out. Logical. “You are a human, a member of the planet’s mammalian species. You utilize terms relevant to Cybertronian anatomical features. Humans cannot possess this knowledge without prior encounters with my species.”

“You’re not the first dinged-up robot I’ve come across,” you answer while fishing around for electrical tape in your overalls. You hop back into the interior and start working on motor cables. No matter the finish or the personality, all of these mechs looked the same on the inside. “Do you have a designation? What do I call you?”

“Shockwave.”

With poor improvisation and the sheer force of willpower, Shockwave manages to arrive at your workshop and then promptly collapses, blindly knocking over ladders and benches thanks to his width. The purple and silver mech presses himself in a corner, head swiveling rapidly. He strains his audial receptors.

“I would report,” he announces stiffly, fins flaring, “I do not trust these premises. I find a thoroughly inadequate design for Cybertronian life forms.”

“Yeah? I don’t have comment cards, but what would you recommend?” you ask as you emerge from a closet, arms filled with various colored wires. Bracing against Shockwave’s knee, you deftly plug them into his navigation and communication systems. You take a moment to study the remains of his interior; the exterior damage looks worse under the bright fluorescent lights but fortunately it’s mostly superficial.

Shockwave pays no attention to your examination. His fingers scrape against the linoleum floor. “You proclaim that you can treat my species yet have no space prepared for an event such as this. It demonstrates a lack of foresight.”

“The last time I messed with a bot, it was two months ago.” You wire into his systems through your laptop. Raf’s custom script begins to run its initial programs.

Shockwave’s head tracks the sound of your footsteps as you cross the garage and strip tinsel from a stack of Energon crates, scattering paper snowflakes from the makeshift holiday tree. As he clumsily wraps his fingers around a bucket of the liquid fuel, you focus on his navigation systems.

In the middle of recalibrating his internal mapping, a new directive abruptly appears in the lime green text.

_> unauthorized third port detected._  
_ > inquire designation_

“Shockwave?” you ask. “Would someone be able to remotely access your navigation system?”

The mech nods. “Commander and surveillance chief, Soundwave. I assumed he would initiate contact.”

> Hi. Shockwave sends his regards. I’m repairing his internal systems

_> inquire nemesis credentials_

Shockwave rattles off an array of numbers, which you enter dutifully and wait for a response.

_> credentials accepted._  
_ > shockwave is safe._  
_ > confirm?_

You watch as Shockwave pours some electric-blue Energon in a drawer-like shelf within his chest compartment.

It’s reminiscent of adding liquid detergent to a laundry machine.

> He’s safe

_> proceed._


	2. lost light - ratchet, whirl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for mental health, suicide mention, please take care

_Medbay._

Ratchet’s stern mouth slips into the customary grimace, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes while he checks the weight scale for the umpteenth time. “Loss of appetite, extended recharge-sleep cycles--” he recites under his breath-- “dour mood, moreso than usual, lack of socialization, motivation, or energy--” You might fall asleep on the examination table if he keeps rattling. Finally the medical officer huffs and picks up his data tablet.

“Diagnosis, doc?” you ask dryly.

He ignores it. “Rung said that your major depressive disorder was in partial remission?”

Something cold and tight twists in your chest. You dig your nails into the flesh of your palm. “Yeah. But I guess I wouldn’t have requested an emergency check-up if it were still in remission.”

“I agree. Especially after concerning reports of your increasing apathy.”

“I know, I know. The work-study, the liaison--”

“I’m talking about the suicide ideation,” Ratchet interrupts.

You shrug. “We both know that I’m not going to _do_ anything.”

Unstoppable force, meet immovable object. Ratchet glares at you but it fails to find effect. Your own gaze cants aside to the disinfected floors, your mind already miles and miles away as you force every bit of your willpower to remain passive. “The good thing is,” the medic says quietly, “that you sought assistance. The _important_ thing is that you are mindful of these negative thoughts. If you are at all concerned-- you come back here. Understand?”

“Fine. What else?”

“Schedule an appointment with Rung. And for Primus’s sake, go and interact with the crew. Take your mind off things.”

\---

_Habsuite_

“Whirl! What are you doing?”

The mech’s head swivels round and peers at you. “You’re back,” he exclaims. “Good. I want coffee and I can’t figure out this blasted contraption.”

“Put down the Keurig, Whirl.”

“But--”

“Now.”

He reluctantly sets the coffee machine back on the desk-- which is an absolute mess, with scattered papers and utensils, but you don’t remember if it was like that before-- and crouches down. He taps your head with the blunt curve of his claw. “How was it? Did Ratchet threaten to lock you up? Throw you in a padded cell?” he demands.

“I wish.” You plug in the Keurig and flick on the power button. It immediately begins to churn, much to Whirl’s delight. Even though it should take ten cups of coffee for a bot to even feel a tingle of caffeine in their system, he likes the taste. So does most of the _Lost Light_ crew, but only Whirl has the impudence to invade your personal suite. You’re a human, after all. Different species, different customs.

(And then you have people like Brainstorm who claim such social conventions fail to apply to scientists after his third failed attempt to replicate the coffee machine.)

“You didn’t miss much,” Whirl says. “As usual. Passed by a few planets. Boring. Tailgate set a new personal record. Oh, and we’re doing this thing where we blindfold Drift and throw things in the air to see if he can hit them--“ He cuts himself off and clicks his claws eagerly as you hand him two fresh cups of coffee.

“Hey, look who’s up,” chirps a familiar voice through the open doorway, and Rodimus leans against the jamb with a datapad under his arm. He flashes one of those shit-eating, confident grins that never fail to coax a smile from his proclaimed favorite, one-and-only liaison. His bright optics flick over to the mech sitting on the floor. “Whirl? How’d you escape the brig?”

“Coffee,” Whirl murmurs distractedly, rocking back-and-forth with his ridiculously lanky limbs.

Rodimus sighs. “Would you--” he gestures to the bot-- “make sure he doesn’t get into trouble?”

“Me?”

“Yeah! Plus, y’know, he behaves better when he’s around you.”

“He does not,” you say indignantly just as Whirl regains enough dignity to grumble, “I do not.”

Rodimus winks. “Movie night at Swerve’s. ‘Kay?”


	3. lost light, misc.

You and Whirl arrive at Swerve’s about half-way into the Lost Light’s debut showing of _The Empire Strikes Back_. He takes off to nestle by the bartop and nurse a pint of engex as someone-- Skids, by the looks of it-- waves you over. “Just in time,” he stage-whispers and helps you on the table. Rung and Getaway glance over before returning their attention to movie. The theoretician lets you lean against him as you settle in for the familiar movie, occasionally flicking through your datapad during the more familiar parts.

“I bet I know the ending,” he murmurs under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear. Skids makes a show of being disinterested by the lightsaber duel between Skywalker and Vader. “I mean, the movie’s about how the, uh, ‘Empire strikes back’.”

Next to him, Getaway begins murmuring feverishly (“but… the only way he could escape… the only visible exit-slash-entry…”).

Rung and the rest of the audience gasp in sync when the young Jedi loses his hand and weapon. Someone distantly shrieks “The Force! Use the Force!” and you’ve narrowed it down to either Velocity or Tailgate, with a chorus of “Ten! Ten! Ten!” from the lovely Legislator.

Luke Skywalker clings to the antennae and accuses the caped Sith Lord of killing his father. The present crew of the _Lost Light_ are at the edge of their seats in anticipation.

Skids leans close to you and whispers, “Watch this.” With a devilish twinkle in his golden eyes, he takes in a deep breath and hollers, “ _THE FLOOR’S A SMELTING POOL!_ ”

No sooner do the words leave his mouth, everyone immediately jumps into action. It’s a dirty fight to climb on tables, chairs, each other, even digging their servos into the walls and ceilings. Whirl literally springs out of his seat like a cat and hooks his claws on a ceiling ornament, cackling maniacally as the others fruitlessly attempt the same with the exception of Trailcutter who casually activates his magnawheels. Cyclonus drapes himself along a stretch of booths with Tailgate cradled in one arm.

Brainstorm begins counting under his breath as he calculates tonight’s successful players (“47 per cent,” he tells you later, “After accommodating for sample size, it’s a definite increase from last week’s 28 per cent!”) while Nautica and Perceptor each grab an arm and hoist him over to the booths. Getaway leaps and grabs Trailcutter by the midsection, squawking at each other as the swinging momentum threatens to decapitate the bots below.

The dark blue mech carefully climbs on the table, scoops up Rung, and places him on his shoulder. “Doin’ okay?” he asks, looking at you between his knees. You give him a thumbs up. 

“SKIDS!” Rodimus howls, shoving his foot in Drift’s face, as the two fight for the narrow bartop. “NOT DURING STAR WARS!”


	4. lost light - perceptor

The Chief Science Officer seemed intimidating at first with his vernacular and an intimidating-looking cannon over his left shoulder. When he explained that he preferred science over combat and invited you to attend his experiments along with Brainstorm, he continues to surprise you with a gentle, inquisitive nature.

Your unfamiliarity with Cybertronian tech allows him to employ the ‘rubber duck’ strategy. Perceptor would ask you to come to the laboratory where he could explain a maddening problem with the quantum engines or the Warren coordinates, and in the midst of scribbling a dozen theorems on the nearest surface, he’d come upon the solution. (He’s a southpaw, too, you note to yourself.)

He’s also _fascinated_ with human food.

\---

“What are you doing with your mouth?”

“Eating. Homemade dinner. Is that okay? Can I eat food in the lab?” You haven’t taken a chemistry class in a long time but safety rules are a distant worry when you’re on an interstellar ship. It seems like Perceptor doesn’t care either. He leaves his station and examines your tuppeware of stir-fry noodles complete with vegetables and sauce.

“May I?” he asks politely, then takes the dish from you. No big deal, you think, he’s a scientist and a sentient machine, he’s bound to be curious-- and then he switches on a blow torch. White-hot flames scorch the air and you yelp, scrabbling backwards from the bot. Perceptor pays no mind and instead says, “I have heard of this food calorimetry among your Earth sciences, but Cybertronians have no need of intake with the exception of energon in its various qualities. Tell me, do you set all of your edibles on fire, or just a select few?"

“Perceptor, can I-- can I have my noodles back?”

“You do not wish to see through the experiment?” Oh, Primus, why does he sound so disappointed?

You hesitate. “Do you need all of it?”

He considers it. “A sample will suffice.” He returns the dish to you and you scrape some on a Cybertronian-scaled petri dish. He busies himself with fixing a proper burner and you eat as fast as possible. While you’re not looking forward to the smell of burnt noodles, you might as well commit to seeing the rest of your dinner go up in flames.

You switch on your comms and hail Rodimus’s frequency. “Hey, Perceptor and I are going to set some stuff on fire. Interested?”

No response. The captain might be in a meeting or in recharge.

You pick up the petri dish and hand it to Perceptor, who thanks you as he takes it ever so carefully from your petite hands. “I’ve another question for you,” he says, balancing the dish above the burner, and then glances back at you. There’s a slight smile on his silver-painted lips. “How much longer until you start calling me Percy?”

You’re-- not sure how to respond, but he chuckles when your ears and cheeks burn red.

“No pressure. Percy or Perceptor, whatever you like,” he says. “I’ve lost track on what I’ve been called in these past cycles. Mostly because not all of them were nice names. Some bots think you can smash two words together and call it a portmanteau. There’s no finesse in it. But it’s not as bad as wielding a communication device capable of transmitting on frequencies across a static yet variable timeline, and calling it a _‘time phone’_.”

The scientist ex-vents heavily.

“Wow. I’m sensing some pent-up frustration.”

“Yes.”

“What would _you_ call it?”

Before he can reply, Rodimus in his flashy alt-mode comes careening through the laboratory doors. He transforms and looks wildly around with eyes wide. “Did you start? Did I miss it?” he demands.

“Not yet,” replies Perceptor.

Another car-- this one silver and maroon-- follows, but the first thing Drift does is look for _you_. “Oh, thank Primus,” he sighs, “When Ultra Magnus learned that the liaison-- the _human_ liason _,_ Percy-- was here, he practically ordered me to follow and, I repeat, ‘Ensure their complete and absolute safety’.”

Rodimus rolls his eyes. “Why? It’s just fire.”

Drift extends his hand and you step on his palm, holding onto his engraved plating for support. He levels his gaze with you. “I trust your decisions but Magnus will have my head if anything happens.” Then Drift falters and steps closer to the work station. “Percy, what precisely are you doing?”

“Calculating the calories in this sample of homemade edibles,” Perceptor declares.

“Noodles,” you correct.

“Right, noodles. Rodimus, would you like to ignite the burner?”

The captain punches the air victoriously a few times, then reaches for the blow torch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm just a liiitle bit in love with perceptor


	5. holoforms - megatron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for kissing i guess
> 
> just. just hurl me into the sun.

It is late when you feel the blankets shift, the mattress dip under heavy weight, and the warm, unmistakable press of a body against yours.

You roll over and hazily gaze at the holomatter form which suddenly goes rigid-- not which, _who_ , you remind yourself, as you cup the scarred, grizzled jawline. His breath hitches. Then he leans into the touch, pressing his nose and his lips into your gentle palm. “I’ve--” he murmurs, “Truth be told, I’ve little experience.”

“Do whatever feels right. What would you usually do?”

He laughs softly. “I haven’t… um, had an opportunity like this in a very, very long time,” he confesses, “but we like to touch our partners.” His hand trail down your thigh, curious and wandering, before it comes to rest against your chest. “We hold them to our spark-- our life force, even if it might be impossible to measure aeons of commitment in just one night.”

Dark amber eyes slowly level with yours. His holomatter form is so much larger and broader than your petite body, but he curls around your body; his touch is feather-light to the point you’d consider asking him to hold you tighter, harder-- and then he takes your chin and presses a gentle kiss on your lips. His aquiline nose brushes against your cheek as he pulls away.

“Was that too forward--”

“No, no, I liked it.”

“Okay. Good.” So his mouth slants against yours again, and you link your arms around his neck. Brief moments in the dark: Fingers tangling in his silver hair. Back arching off the mattress. Breaking apart to catch your breath. Reflections of a timid smile. When he shifts his weight to pin you more firmly, mouth and tongue delving deeper, more intimately--

_Brainstorm and Rung stare at you with unabashed judgement. Well, maybe it’s more like shock, as the psychiatrist hastily removes his glasses and cleans them with a cloth. Brainstorm merely shrugs. “Sure, why the hell not?”_

_“Let’s consider the idea,” Rung says hastily, keeping his gaze on his spectacles. “The holomatter form is the personification of one’s personality, or psyche. The question on whether they could alter their appearance by, er, removing their accessories warrants further testing. Taking off a coat is one thing, but-- well, someone who willingly removes their clothing articles, a part of their own unconscious identity…”_

_“It’s something like complete surrender,” Brainstorm says dryly. “Complete and utter surrender.”_

\--and his hand slides up your shirt and Megatron groans into your mouth as his callused palm skims over your tummy, your thin undergarments, and he sits back on his haunches, fumbling with his collar. “Wait, wait,” you say breathlessly, grabbing his wrist. “Are you okay with this?”

The crow’s feet around his amber eyes crinkle with a knowing, expectant smile. “Yes,” he says, voice low and hoarse. “Believe me, I want this experience. But not with anyone. Just you.” You release him and he unbuttons the rest of his shirt, throwing it on the habsuite floor.


	6. empurata (2/?)

You’d normally detest working in silence.

But Shockwave, deprived of his sight, is easily overwhelmed with the background clamor of music and television news. His low voice is strained as he politely requests you to deactivate the radio frequency promoting _Destination Mattress, Your Number One Premium Choice Mattress For A Good Night’s Rest_.

After you calibrate his navigation systems, the Cybertronian briefly links up with his friend, the one he calls Soundwave.

“Unfortunately, he is momentarily away from the _Nemesis_ ,” Shockwave drones, dragging the thick digits of his right hand along the floor, “and no one else aboard is competent enough to oversee the debriefing. Soundwave will be available to open a space-bridge in roughly one-eighth of a cycle. This translates to--”

“Two hours,” you say as you flick on the soldering torch and start repairing the fissions on his arm canon.

Shockwave twitches. “You demonstrate… adequate knowledge on Cybertronian terms.”

“Yep. Let me see the underside of the canon.” Superficial scratches. Nothing a little bit of sandpaper and polish couldn’t fix. You flip up the protective visor and squint up at the mech.

Perhaps sensing your curiosity, Shockwave’s shattered, broken gaze slowly turns in your direction. He says, “No one on the _Nemesis_ has reported contact with an individual such as yourself. Therefore, I am not allied with the mechs you previously met.”

Something within his chest groans like old, creaking pipes in the winter chill. You set aside the torch and unceremoniously climb up on the mech’s huge legs, straining to reach for the chest cavity. Shockwave gently braces the back of his hand against your chest, pushing away your eager, helping hands. His touch and voice are firm: Softer than you could have imagined from someone so imposing.

“I am not an Autobot,” he tells you. “Your assistance is most illogical.”

You lift your gaze from the cracked plating barely concealing the glow of his Spark to the jagged shards of his single optic. “Does it bother you that I’ve helped Autobots?” you ask.

“It suggests that you are company to their cause,” Shockwave replies. “And they would not hesitate to eliminate me.”

“Under different circumstances, I would choose a side,” you admit, “but I’ve decided that I don’t owe my allegiance to either Autobot or Decepticon. I find broken bots, I fix them, and I send them home. If you’d like to pay for the electricity bill, by all means please--”

Shockwave leans forward abruptly, throwing his gaze an unnecessary five feet above your head, and says brusquely, “You assisted Cybertronians in their time of need and it is custom to return the favor. It is a great advantage to your personal benefit.” He sounds incensed, as if he’s angry at your charitable motivations.

“I don’t need favors,” you say after some thought, “because I don’t have enemies.”

* * *

With Shockwave slowly keeping in pace with your muddy red pickup truck, there is an unspoken question in the dust of your tracks. Early to the rendezvous point for the space-bridge, he crushes thorny brambles and barrel cacti with a sweep of his hand and kneels on the desert ground. Sitting on the roof of your truck, you’re almost level with his shoulders.

It is the brink of dawn. The midnight blues give way to smears of pink and orange, and morning wrens begin to wake and sing. You watch as Shockwave swivels his head side-to-side, flicking his fins to detect the sounds all around him. The crinkle of your jacket draws his attention and he leans closer and closer, curious and inquisitive.

Laughing, you push him away before he can knock you over; Shockwave responds to your slightest touch and retreats immediately.

“Do you think we’ll meet again?” you ask.

“Unlikely.” The mech pauses. “Yet I am in your debt.”

“Shockwave, I--”

“Refusing to collect favors is an irrational philosophy.” He flexes his fingers and shifts his shoulders irritably. The laser canon remains mostly defunct and limp at his side. Though he claims to be a scientist first and foremost, you guess that he is not unkind to solving problems with violence. “I do not understand your logic,” Shockwave says finally. “It is not in your best interest.”

“Shockwave,” you sigh, “do you really want me to call you in the middle of the night, asking if you could pick up a carton of milk for me? Do a grocery run or-- or drive me to the scrapyard?”

The mech takes a legitimate moment to consider the question. How methodical and calculated. “You believe that the favor will be inadequate when compared to the magnitude of my resources.”

“Uh, sure.”

Nearby, the air ripples like a mirage and then the space-bridge portal engulfs emptiness.

Two Decepticons emerge from the swirling mass: The first is spindly and thin, painted violet with crisp, clean black highlights. His face-- his _face_ is just an empty, glossy screen, and with the feeling of unease trickling down your spine, you’d bet that this is Soundwave. The other mech is more akin to the build of your Autobot acquaintances. He boasts his alt mode and crimson colors, and a sardonic smile stretches across his pale face; his eyes are piercing slits in pools of black.

Shockwave stands and, without even acknowledging you, begins to lumber towards the mechs. You watch wide-eyed as he greets them with an indignant, almost impatient attitude. His weight settles mostly on his back leg and he shies his damaged left side from the other bots. His words seem more clipped and frigid than normal.

“We thought you’d gone offline,” remarks the red Cybertronian in a tone that is neither relieved nor disappointed. Nonchalant, more so. “Imagine our surprise when your communications array popped up on Soundwave’s radar. Well, you’re mobile and half-way decently functional. The optic will obviously have to be replaced.”

The first dregs of sunlight streaks across the barren horizon. The mech’s keen gaze flicks past Shockwave and latches on your illuminated figure. Tiny, miniscule, and utterly human.

“Have you been making friends, Shockwave?” he drawls, grinning slyly. “Or is this one of your captors? I don’t recognize this particular one but then again, they all look alike. Might I get a closer look--?”

Shockwave’s fins bristle, though his tone remains monotonous. “Desist, Knockout. There are matters more important aboard the _Nemesis_.”

Knockout, unperturbed, shrugs, flashes you one more charming smirk, then strolls back to the space-bridge portal. The silent Soundwave follows suit with his eerily calm, loping gait. Shockwave takes slow, heavy steps after his allies. He pauses, and then looks back at you. A purely sentimental, emotional gesture coupled with his blindness.

How… impractical.

You may never see each other again but he’ll have traces of your presence. Spliced wires, neatly soldered sutures, and masking tape in various ports and appendages. You held his _Spark_ in your hands. You jammed a whole syringe of Energon into his life force. You brought him online.

Gratitude lingers in his fragmented frame, except Shockwave is not the type to profess thanks.

He’s simply not programmed that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there were so many lovely comments supporting the first chapter so i worked hard on a follow-up <3 thank you


	7. interlude - tarantulas, prowl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finished reading sin of the wreckers/requiem of the wreckers
> 
> wreck my heart why doncha

_This is fine,_ you think to yourself. _This is totally fine._

“Excuse me,” you holler into the never-ending darkness, gripping the thick, webby strings for dear life, “but I really think I’m not supposed to be here.” You slowly inch along the giant spiderweb towards the distant pinprick of light. How deep is this abyss? How long ago were you tossed in here? “Cross my heart, I don’t know who you are, or what you are, and I don’t think we’ve even met--”

Something _heavy_ lands behind you and you scream at the sudden jerk and sway of the web. You squeeze your eyes shut but the hairs on the back of your neck stand as your captor’s voice penetrates the black: “Hush, bloodbag. I know your alliance with the Autobots.”

“Are you--”

“A Decepticon? No. But I am… pleased to find your presence brings results.”

He doesn’t sound too pleased. He sounds _giddy_. Shivering, you ask, “What sort of results?”

“You see, I’ve been parted from my dearest for a very long time. Even after betrayal after betrayal… I long to be reunited,” he croons, crawling forward, careful not to jostle the delicate web. His words are like honey. Thick like syrup, thick and slurred with too many teeth or fangs in his mouth. “Once Prowl learns about your, mmm, perilous state, he will come. And I will be waiting.”

It feels as if fear has iced over your limbs and your thoughts, but you manage to stammer, “P-Prowl?”

“Oh,” says the voice, as if coming upon an epiphany.

And then he grabs your shoulders, spins you round, and forces your eyes open as his legs sweep the length of your body, curious and invasive at the same time. Your vision adjusts to the dim light and fixes on the two gleaming yellow eyes as pale as spring daffodils. His legs retreat to eight lanky, powerful shadows-- and if your early biology days have meant anything, at least you can identify a damn spider when you see one.

“He’s never mentioned me?” the mech purrs. “I mustn’t be surprised. You may call me Tarantulas.”

You flinch as Tarantulas darts his head forwards and greedily listens to your racing heartbeat, your shallow breaths, and you whisper, “I-- I don’t know Prowl, I don’t work with him--”

“Such does not matter, bloodbag,” Tarantulas hums dreamily, petting your head, “because I know Prowl in all manners. For instance, I know he will come for you not because he wishes to entertain your friends, but for his own selfish reasons. I must admit, I… recognize the appeal.” He sees your eyes widen, and inwardly chuckles. “Oh, sweet, sweet bloodbag. I can’t _wait_ for him to find you.”


	8. shrike - prowl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw brief mention of explicit sexual content at the ending
> 
> ft idw prowl

“Close your eyes.”

You obey his soft order, and still it feels like forever before the touch of warm metal against your lips. And you’re willing, _Primus above_ , you’re more than willing to indulge in his hesitant kiss. Even if all the red flags were waving wildly from the moment you heard about him--

_His name is Prowl. He’s an Autobot. He’s practical. Logical. Cunning. Angry. So angry, all the time. Better stay away from him._

It seems like everyone on Cybertron has bad blood with the intelligence officer. Whether he insults their pride or uses them for his own advantages, not even the nicest ‘bots have many compliments for him. So you figured that he’d hate someone like you-- human and fragile and an ally to those he mistrusts.

And then Prowl rescues you in an isolated strip of desert in the middle of the desert. You remember rogue Decepticons hurtling across the barren landscape towards you, with Wheeljack and Ratchet too far away to intercept them, even in their alt-modes. You grab a pipe from a recently dismantled ‘con, wrap both shaking hands around it, and ready yourself to fight.

Then a streak of white leaps across your vision and sends two ‘cons hurtling across the sky. Blasters open fire on the remaining Decepticon, forcing him to regroup with the others. Prowl scoops you up in his arms, transforms, and hightails out of the battle zone. A seatbelt lashes you tight to the black upholstery when you try to twist around and look for Wheeljack and Ratchet. They are blurred shadows past the tinted windows.

“Relax,” is the first thing Prowl says to you. He speaks curtly, but without malice. “We’ll take you back to the base.”

Your heartbeat is pounding in your ears and you blankly stare at the crimson emblem on his steering wheel. “Uh, Prowl--?”

A radio dial twitches, and the rearview mirror tilts to look down at you. “What? Spit it out.”

“I, uh, I just wanted to say thanks,” you stammer. “I mean, no one’s ever tackled a car for me before.”

Prowl snorts.

He deposits you back at the base in view of Ultra Magnus, who immediately rounds upon the smaller ‘bot, demanding to know if he caused the battle, endangered your life, and on and on. The more accusations thrown in his direction, Prowl’s scowl grows darker and darker. You try to protest in his defense, but he disappears into the base without another word.

When the world paints you as the villain or the traitor, you slowly accept the role as your destiny. Like a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Later than afternoon, you adjust your hold on the cup of engex, then knock on the door of his quarters.

He invites you inside. You turn to look at the multitudes of tablets and holographs on his table and when you look at Prowl again, he’d mass displaced closer to your height: Instead of twenty-five feet tall, he was only seven feet tall. Like a tall Christmas tree complete with a star on top.

You offer him the engex.

He takes it. “Thanks. You should leave.” Prowl studies you with his brilliant blue optics and a frown on his lips. His gaze follows you as you curiously pace his room, taking note of the wide berth and the towering shelves as tall as skyscrapers, and the canisters of empty energon neatly stacked in one corner of the room.

Then he grasps your elbow. “Really, I think you should leave. The others will be looking for you.” His touch is too kind, too light, to be the violent, traitorous bastard described by friends and foe.

_Bite the bullet._

“Y’know, the ‘bots around the base talk a lot about you,” you tell him. “They say that you were a bad cop, or a traitor to the Autobots, or that you’re responsible for secret intelligence and-- and all sorts of New Institute-level sketchy shit, so I don’t know why I should think otherwise except--”

You take a deep breath. Prowl arches his eyebrows. “Go on. Except what?”

“Except I don’t feel afraid around you.”

“You don’t have to be scared of someone to consider them an enemy,” says Prowl, who releases you and leans on the side of the berth. “All you have to do is respect their advantages. The rest of the ‘bots are right-- I choose to do most things for my own self-interest. I’d prefer to save worlds, too. When you work alongside ‘bots like Optimus Prime or Ultra Magnus, honor and morality becomes somewhat skewed in comparison to them.”

“Makes sense.”

Prowl’s lips twist into a smirk. “’Course it does.”

“So how come you’re so nice to me?” you joke.

“Just wait ‘til I’m done with this,” he says, raising his cup, “and then I’ll give you an earful about how incredibly benign and harmless you are.”

He means it in jest, and for the rest of the evening (after grabbing a drink for yourself) you trade jabs at each other. Prowl laments about human narcissism and inability to stay out of a battle. You ask exactly how that differs between humans and Cybertronians. He gestures wildly as if he could encompass the massive size difference between the races. He rambles about mechs even taller than Prime and Magnus; bots like Thundercracker or Bruticus or Devastator, and a whole barrage of others you have no desire to meet.

It’s good to see Prowl relaxed and away from the others’ judgement-- to see something other than a deep frown on his face.

But he doesn’t smile, he just smirks or rolls his eyes.

Prowl likes you _because_ of how incredibly benign and harmless you are. To him, you pose no certain threat to his sense of security or well-being. To him, you’re someone who listens to him and talks his ear off when he’s in his worst moods. He doesn’t have to stand stiff with his arms folded across his chest. He doesn’t have to owe favors or collect debts, the way he’s been living his entire life.

You are a distraction; you are the eye of the storm; you are the stability he craves, one day, after all war is done and over.

He sets his lips against the back of your hand.

Then on your bare shoulder.

And then he asks you to close his eyes as he frames your face between his palms and kisses you. He can taste salt, and he cannot fathom the way your flesh gives way under the slightest pressure. Perhaps you sense his hesitation and your eyes flutter open-- to look at him with absolute adoration. His spark feels like it could burst with euphoria. Acceptance. Pride. Validation.

You stroke along his helm. “I love your optics,” you tell him. “I love your lips, I even love your damn smirk.” Prowl ducks his head instinctively, but you coax another kiss from his amenable mouth. “You can hold me harder. I won’t break, I promise. I’m a lot tougher than I look.”

“There you go again,” Prowl huffs, “with that superior human perspective.”

“Prowl.”

“Mmm.”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

“You, you are the only individual who could possibly tell me to shut up without--“ He loses the rest of his remark in your insistent, impatient kiss.

You hook your arms around his neck and Prowl lifts you with ease, balancing your lean body against his warm frame. His free hand roams your back, then you seize his wrist and bring it to your mouth. Prowl watches, agape, as you lavish the back of his hand with small kisses. He unconsciously brushes his thumb across your bottom lip. Pink. Pliant.

Prowl’s vents are roaring as he stares at you unabashedly. You level with his gaze with the same mix of hesitation and arousal.

 _Bite the bullet._ A purely human term which you’d taught him in the restless aftermath of a skirmish. Prowl doesn’t usually jump at opportunities, but there’s no time to analyze the results of every decision.

Prowl, much unlike himself, takes the risk and its consequences.

He slowly slips his thumb further into your mouth. Past the lips. He feels the blunt graze of your flat teeth-- and _dear Primus,_ your soft and innocent tongue brimming with all sorts of wicked intentions. You close your lips around his digit. You drag your tongue from the base of the thumb to the tip and suck lightly, groaning happily as Prowl chokes out a curse and tightens his grip around your waist. You are the only thing grounding him to reality right now.

But you’re also rolling your hips against him, and a hand sneaks down to unfasten your trousers. Your two races have enough common ground when it comes to intimacy. The mech briefly fantasizes pinning you against the wall as he drives his spike into you until you’re begging to overload with him--

\--and then he’s imagining you riding him on top of all those tablets, scattering classified documents without care--

\-- then again, the berth’s where he’s always pictured you during the nighttime, lost in his hazy thoughts, imagining you against the headboard as he fucks you from behind--

Prowl thinks he’s on the brink of short-circuiting, so he withdraws his hand and grabs your chin, forcing your eyes to meet. He can’t wait anymore. Not with you. Every _atom_ in his treacherous body is screaming at him.

“Where?” Prowl demands between heavy vents.

“Anywhere.”


End file.
